I stiffened, feeling hurt. “Right.”
“I just mean—”
I forced the rejection away. “It’s okay. I know what you meant.” I smiled my infamous dimpled grin, the one in all the magazines. “Then imagine that I’m your closest friend and pretend you’re catching up with them.”
Her gaze moved over my shoulder, and her mouth softened into a gentle smile. She took a deep breath and nodded, some of her color returning. I would give up the entirety of my royalties to know the person who just popped into her brain.
Please let it be RC.
I cleared my throat. “You got this.”
After “action” was called, and after a few stumbling starts, Kate found her groove. She was adorable and charming. Unlike some interviews I’d endured, she actually listened to the answers to the questions she asked. She was quick on her feet and didn’t make it obvious when she read from the prompts. Christ, she was a natural. More so than I ever was, even when I was still “Chubby Chucky.”
My questions to her started basic enough: How old she was when she first started watching TF? What was her favorite episode? How had the show changed her life, and how did she get started writing fan fiction? I knew these all, of course, and just as in our emails, she was endearingly earnest and honest. The next set of prompted questions, however, were idiotic. The producers wanted me to ask about her fan fiction that focused primarily on my character as an adult. They wanted to create tension between us to help with ratings. Her beautiful blush would make every promo trailer if they had their way. But I wouldn’t let them use her. She wouldn’t want to talk about something so personal.
“Tell me about what you’re working on now?” I asked smoothly when it was my turn.
“Oh. I just work at a small office—”
“No.” I cut her off with a gentle smile to lessen the sting. “What are you writing now?”
She straightened and flicked a gaze to a producer off camera. She lifted her chin and took a steadying breath. “Well, I’m writing, or rather, have finished a novel.”
That’s my girl.
“Tell me about it.” I held her gaze.
She stuttered, trying to find her words.
“Imagine I’m your friend, and you’re giving me a pitch for your book in a lift. You only have four floors to go.” I smiled at her.
Holding my gaze, she relaxed and beautifully explained the plot of the book I had already read. It was succinct and intriguing, and I even heard a few soft rumbles of interest around us. I was so fucking proud of her.
“Sounds interesting. I’ll have to google what a space opera is,” I teased.
She opened her mouth to say something and closed it. Her eyebrow raised. Another slip. I had to be more careful. Hopefully, she didn’t get the reference to one of our earliest conversations.
“I can’t wait to read it,” I added while pretending to study the next question.
“Well, it’s not published.”
“Not yet.” I smiled.
Color rushed to her cheeks and spread down her neck. She sucked in a smile and stared blankly at her cards, grinning ear to ear as she collected herself.
It was her turn to ask me a question. “Of the Intrepid Trio, who is most like their character?”
Out of reflex, I stiffened at the familiar question I must have been asked a hundred times over the years.
“Everyone would say me and Freddy Finks are one and the same, I’m sure,” I answered flatly.
She frowned as her gaze moved over my face.
“That must be hard? To be conflated so often, since you’re not the same person,” she asked softly without looking at the cards.
I cleared my throat. If it was anybody else, I would have changed the subject or gotten grumpy. This wasn’t her fault, and I couldn’tnotanswer her. “It was very easy at first. I was a kid. I was Freddy,” I said.
“And then?”
